


phoning it in

by bluecarrot



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: M/M, Phone Sex, phone sex op
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-18 06:40:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9372623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluecarrot/pseuds/bluecarrot
Summary: harken o children and let me spin thee a yarn of ye olde phone sex operator aaron burr





	

**Author's Note:**

> written 14 January 2017.

There are three kinds of callers.

One -- by far the most common -- is easily embarrassed, easily led. I've never done this before, they lie, and Burr says something reassuring and sweet and encouraging, and onward they go. Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty.

The second sort are regulars. They call every day or every three days or every week, and some of them don't talk at all -- it's a few sticky whimpers and a moan and a hangup -- while others go on and fucking on, rambling about their lives, problems great and small and often imaginary, venting about girlfriends or wives or that male coworker they can't stop staring at even though it is disgusting and against everything in the Bible.

Burr nods, though they can't see him. Says something meaningless and encouraging.

Sometimes he takes the phone and sits on the sill and cranks open the window a few inches and listens to them confess while he smokes. He quit last year but some days deserve it. Some days  require it.

The other kind is so rare he shouldn't consider it real. It's only happened twice. Not statistically relevant. But when he draws the blackout curtains drawn against the bright sky, shuts his eyes and tries to sleep, he loses the clean comfort of statistics and numbers, that beautiful world of utter certainty. Emotions unfurl. They snake through his skin. He lays on his back and thinks:  _Alexander._

Twice, it happened.

Alex happened once.

 

The first time was early on. Burr only had the job a week or two and he never caught the guy's name -- it was just some rando, some caller, whose voice just happened to hit every nerve in Burr's body and set them on fire when he said  Hello when he said  So what are you wearing.

What do you want me to have on? said Burr. He was already familiar with this script.

The guy laughed.  It doesn't matter, really. What I want is for you to take it off.

And Burr did. His hands shook, his phone was on speaker, and he'd never been so turned on in his life.

 

(What about if they get us, you know, into it? Burr had said.

His mentor -- a middle aged white man with a receeding hairline, a step-kid, and two ex-wives -- he'd shrugged.  It'll never happen. Most these guys want a therapist, not a lover. The rest of them should be locked up. If you get off on  them, then  you need to be locked up.

It was not an extensive training session.)

 

So. Just a statistical anomoly. Uncountable. The calls were roud-robined to a thousand lines all over the country; there was no real chance you'd talk to the client twice.

But it took months and months before he lost that tiny thrill of hope when he answered the phone.

 

Alexander was different. When he called, Burr was already smoking -- his  third cigarette -- and he'd answered the ring with a snappish "Hello?"

"Well," said the voice. "I did think they paid you to be polite." He sounded amused, not offended.

Burr considered his bank account, his dignity, and the remaining cigarettes before he apologized.

"Not a problem. I thought it was funny. So, I'm not sure how this works? This is my first time calling --"

Sure , thought Burr. He savagely lit another cigarette (six left). And this is my first time answering. We're all virgins here.

"It's been a long week at work, and -- and I'm getting charged by the minute, right, I shouldn't ramble. Washington always says that's my worst trait -- he's my boss -- that, and," (a surprisingly husky laugh) "and I tell the truth."

"Oh honey," said Burr. "I do too. I hate liars." Yes. And also I am a nubile, willing, shockingly well-endowed virgin.  He flicked the lighter, watching the flame jump out and retreat.

"Is that a lighter? Are you smoking?"

"Of course not." He set it aside; he'd count instead. One, two, five, seven, eleven, thirteen ...

"It's cool if you do. But. Um. So. So my boss says I talk too much. But if you don't have anything to say, people are gonna run all over you."

It had the air of a practiced line. Burr edged the window open further and blew smoke out, then leaned his head back against the wall. The caller was still talking. Burr might as not even have answered, for all the difference his presence made to the conversation.  Blah blah blah.

"Hey," said the guy. "What're you wearing?"

"Whatever you'd like."

"No, I'm serious."

"So am I --"

"No, no," and the voice was annoyed now; he clearly thought Burr wasn't taking him seriously (true) and that Burr was simply lying for expediency (also true). "I mean, do you wear ... normal clothes? Do they give you a uniform?"

Like a French Maid outfit? He was surprised and almost intrigued and caught off-guard; he found himself

telling the truth. "Technically we're independent contractors; we work from home. I can wear anything at all."

"Oh. -- So what are you wearing?"

"A pair of flannel pjs, socks, and a t-shirt." He didn't want to say it, had to say it, said it: "What're  you wearing?"

"Work clothes. Normal stuff. Suit, white button down, tie. No, nevermind, I threw that shit across the room as soon as I got home. I didn't bother changing though, I still was too mad. I wish you'd use your real voice."

"My --"

"You used your real voice when you told me about your pyjamas and being an independent contractor. I guess it's  your real voice. It's much nicer than your horny-phone-sex-operator-raging-libido-no-inhibitions voice, anyway."

"Um."

"Man, I don't mean to be -- I'm not criticicing your job. You work from home, like, kudos to you. And I'm the one calling in, right? I just ... I just think your natural is better. Prettier."

"Pretty?"

"I bet you're pretty," said the man: and this part was like a normal call, except Burr was flustered and interested, and when the caller said  So what do you look like? Burr gave an approximate version of the truth.

His reward was a slight clearing-throat noise over the line and an audible unbuckling. "Tell me more. What's your name?"

"Aaron." There were millions of  Aarons . "What's yours? I want to know what I should be saying when I come."

"Oh, don't. Don't. Just -- um. My name's Alex. Alexander."

"Alexander," said Burr. "And what do you look like, Alexander?"

A rustling noise. "Long hair -- big nose -- Mmm. Jesus. So what do you do, in bed? And don't tell me you'd do whatever I want; that's fucking creepy and gross."

"You're aware, this is a phone call experience only --"

"Yeah. Yeah. I meant," another hitch or a gasp, "I meant personally."

None of your goddamn business, he should have said.  Everything I tried felt so good, I couldn't choose, he had said before when clients asked the question.

He said: "I'd strip you down. I'd sit on your legs to keep you in place. Then I'd put my mouth on you."

He shut his eyes.

"I'd lick around the base until you were leaking. I'd hold your balls in my hand and squeeze so lightly every time you made a noise."

"Yeah?" said Alexander. No doubt about it: he was breathing thicker.

"When you were gagging for it, when you thought you'd die without me on you, I would take you in my mouth. Not all of it. Enough for you to think I was going to take you all inside, and then --"

"God."

"Then I'd let you work me open, Alexander." And his hand was on himself without realizing he put it there. "I'd let you eat me slow."

"God," said the voice. " God ."

"And I'd let you put yourself in me. I'd want to be on top, that's usually more comfortable for me, but sometimes--"

The sound of ragged moans and a disjointed sound, like his name. "I would love that -- you above me. Your face while I moved into you, beautiful, beautiful. But only sometimes. Cause sometimes I'd push you face-first into the mattress and let you take me hard."

Burr's c--k jerked in his hand. "Would you."

"But I'd want to come with you looking at me. I'd want to come with your mouth open, beneath me, hungry and pleading for me to kiss you or bite you or just touch you somewhere. And I'd want your hands dragging marks down my back."

"Fuck," Burr said.

"I want you to come without being touched at all, just the feeling of me inside you, our bodies together, our skin ... And when you've rested, I want to bring you around again and suck you off so good, you see stars."

Burr  was seeing stars; he thought he saw a comet. He managed to say "What about you? What should I do to you?" and whimpered a moan, fist moving faster.

"Nothing. Everything. But I want to touch you," said Alexander -- and he groaned, gutteral and low, and Burr thought that must have been true (or something like it.)

A few strokes later he was done, too, muffling the sound between tightly-gritted teeth.

He tried to remember his closing script and failed.

Alexander said: "That was -- Aaron, you're -- I'll call you again, okay? Tomorrow." And hung up.

Eventually the dialtone switched over to a horrible beeping and Burr hit the "off" button. Then he stared at the handset. "Fuck," he said. " _Fuck_. "


End file.
